


Just the Thing

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Fluff, Joff is just as charming as usual, Modern AU, Rom-com, Sandor's the best man, Sansa getting married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5918335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa’s getting married to Joffrey and she’s never been happier!  It’s a time of love and romance and talks of the future with her fiancé… or it SHOULD be, at least.  So how did she wind up dating the Hound?</p><p>Happy Birthday AdultOrphan!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdultOrphan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdultOrphan/gifts), [AdultOphan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=AdultOphan).



> Birthday gift for AdultOrphan, and also for AdultOphan, her evil twin. 
> 
> Thanks to SnowWhiteKnight who's been my creative consultant on this one. Sorry about all the emails. :-(
> 
> Hope to roll this one out quickly, so hang on!

 

 

 

_"Eddard and Catelyn Stark of Winterfell are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter, Sansa Stark, to Joffrey Baratheon, son of Robert and Cersei Baratheon of King’s Landing. The future bride is a recent graduate of the Westeros Institute of Technology.  The future groom graduated from the University of Westeros and is employed with Baratheon & Lannister, PA.  A June wedding is planned."_

 

* * *

 

The world’s most beautiful fairy-tale wedding was only four months away and Sansa was _elated_ , truly over the moon.  Her parents had given her free rein to spend whatever she wanted and she had taken them at their word.  But this wasn’t only about _her_.  No, this was about the life they were about to enter into _together_ and she was determined to tackle this significant event as a team.

Which was how she found herself outside the Buttercream Bakehouse, waiting for Joffrey to show up so they could sample and pick out cakes. He was late; no big surprise there, she sighed to herself.  What _was_ a surprise was the enormous black truck that pulled into the parking lot and the enormous driver that got out and approached her.

“Where’s Joff?” she asked, peering up at him.

“Can’t make it. Sent me instead.”

It was more than a little annoying that Joffrey sent a lackey in his place- as if picking a cake was some sort of trivial task and not a representation of their love- but she was not about to show it. Not to the _Hound_ , of all people. 

Two hours later they had made their selections- a satiny white confection with lemon filling for the wedding cake, and a simple round ganache with mocha cream filling for the groom’s cake.

“I still think it’s too much chocolate,” she complained when he walked her to her car.

“Thanks for letting me win anyway, _honey,”_ he rasped sarcastically.  She couldn’t help but bristle; he always had to be so abrasive with her, and it was starting to wear thin.

“It’s just a cake,” she grumbled, pulling her door closed and her seatbelt on. She didn’t even look back as she drove away.

 

* * *

 

“But you already _picked_ china,” the love of her life whined.

“That was our everyday china; we need formal china, too.” Honestly, she thought everyone knew that, but apparently this part of Joff’s upbringing was lacking.

“Can’t _you_ just pick something?”

“I can,” she nodded. “But I prefer to have a second opinion.”

“Well, I’m not going to the mall right now, not during the playoffs. Take someone else.”

‘Someone else’ turned out to be the same person as last time, and even though he let her know through his usual growls and grunts that he really did not want to be picking out china with her, he still helped her narrow it down to a few lovely designs. In the end they went with a neoclassic pattern in black and gold, and afterwards he took her to get a milkshake while she chattered on and on about how their new china was simple but elegant and perfect for special occasions.

“It’s ugly,” Joff wrinkled his nose later. “Why would you pick _those_ colors?”

She couldn’t remember _why_ she picked those colors, to be honest; looking back on the selection process the only thing she could remember was that the Hound said he liked them.   

“It’s just china,” she said, and went to the kitchen to throw her milkshake away.

 

* * *

 

“You have got to be kidding me.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised that Joffrey had forgotten about their ballroom dancing class. Just because she put it on his calendar, sent him a text, and called him this afternoon to remind him didn’t mean that he would remember.  He was a very busy man; she _knew_ that.

It also really shouldn’t have been a surprise that he sent a replacement. She couldn’t dance alone, after all, so it was actually _considerate_ that he’d sent someone in his stead.  Just because that someone was extra-tall and extra-grouchy didn’t diminish her fiancé’s thoughtful gesture, and at this point, even _she_ had to admit he was better than Meryn or Boros.  He still growled and grumbled at her and sometimes made her feel bad, but he was… better.   

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I didn’t drive all the way the fuck down here during rush hour just to turn around and go home. Come on.”

The Hound was a terrible dancer, but at least he knew it. Joffrey wasn’t much of a dancer, either- hence the classes- but when _he_ stepped on her feet he always made it out like it was her fault.  It was better, really, with someone who wasn’t constantly trying to correct her, and she spent most of the time bumping into him and laughing and occasionally actually dancing.  Even the teacher mentioned how well they worked together and that they had improved tremendously, and while Sansa wouldn’t say she necessarily agreed, she _would_ say that at least they had fun.

“You got another one of these classes before the wedding?” he asked her, opening her car door for her.

“If he’s not even going to come then what’s the point?”

“Good question.” It seemed like there was more in that statement than just agreement but she had no interest in taking the bait.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she sighed. “It’s just a dance class.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I put a milkshake in ANOTHER modern AU. It's a thing!


	2. Chapter 2

 

It was a Saturday and Joffrey wasn’t working, so Sansa had cornered him on his couch, papers in hand and determined to work as a couple in planning the celebration of their undying love.

“I downloaded the catering options, all we have to do is make our selections for the buffet then email them in.”

Joffrey screwed up his face at her comments. “Buffet?  Can’t we just pick one dish for everyone?”

“No, _sweetie_ , it’s way more complicated than that.  Bran is vegetarian, Margaery is vegan, Sam is lactose-intolerant, Robb and his wife are avoiding gluten, Theon is allergic to shrimp, and you _know_ your mother will…”

Sansa stopped abruptly when Joffrey stood and walked to the entertainment center, pulled out a controller, and turned on the television. He hardly registered the way Sansa was gaping at him till he’d flopped back onto the couch, then held out his hands and gave her an irritatingly innocent look. 

“What?”

“We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

“I know,” he sneered. “I just wanna play a little Black Ops while we work on it.”

What he really meant, though, was he would play Black Ops while _Sansa_ worked on it.  And even though she kept trying to talk to him about it, tried to get his opinion, he spent the entire time yelling into his headset and absently telling her that whatever she picked sounded ‘fine.’ 

It was bad enough that their time together was so lop-sided and skewed towards the television; it was worse that they couldn’t even be alone. One of the truly annoying things about Joffrey’s apartment was the way all his friends treated it like it was some sort of club house- they came and went as they pleased, slept there if they felt like it, ate and drank whatever was available.  So it wasn’t really any kind of surprise when the Hound came lumbering into the living room, tossing his keys on the entertainment center as Joff shouted his greeting. 

“Hey man, grab a controller. No, not you, butt munch, I was talking to my dog, he’s gonna join in.”

The Hound did as he was instructed, taking a controller from the drawer and easing onto the couch next to Sansa. God almighty but he took up way more than his fair share of the cushions; she had to shift away from him so that their legs weren’t inappropriately touching.

So there she sat, wedged between two overgrown children and surrounded by testosterone and imaginary violence while she continued her attempt at bonding with her fiancé, repeatedly asking for his input and determined to make him help.

“I really think we should go with the asparagus. It’s grilled and chilled, so they don’t use any meat or dairy or extra seasonings, and all of our guests will be able to eat it.”

Her words sailed off into the hopeless black hole that was Joffrey’s side of the conversation, the only sound in the room coming from the battle on TV and the frantic clacking of Xbox controllers.

“Joff?”

“Huh? Oh.  Whatever you want, babe.” 

“Does anyone actually _like_ asparagus?” the Hound spoke up, turning to look at her.

“It’s grilled and chilled.”

“And that makes it better?”

There was something about the way his burned lip curled up in disgust that was almost… adorable; Sansa couldn’t help but smile.

“Fine,” she relented after a moment’s thought. “No asparagus.”

An hour later she and the Hound were sitting on the floor, menus sprawled out on the coffee table in front of them while Joffrey continued to yell into his headset. And even though she kept trying to get his opinion on things, he preferred to focus on his game and not the matter of their impending nuptials. 

“Well, we can’t only have beef and salmon,” she reasoned out loud. “We should have chicken, too.”

“That chicken marsala sounds good,” the Hound suggested, but Sansa shook her head.

“Joffrey doesn’t like mushrooms.”

“Oh yeah?”

The tone in his voice made her pause, and when she looked up at him she noticed the sly little smirk- a clue, she realized, that he already knew Joffrey didn’t like mushrooms. How odd.  On the television screen over his shoulder she could see what appeared to be her fiancé’s character dying in a hail of gunfire and blood, a theory soon supported by his sudden outburst.

“Fucking hell, dog! Can you stop dicking around for a minute and cover me?”

“Chicken marsala it is,” she announced, and ticked the box marking her selection.

After she scanned and emailed the forms she had a moment of panic, overcome by a disproportionate amount of guilt. Which was silly, she knew that; he wouldn’t be stuck with the chicken marsala, he could have the beef or salmon instead. 

So why did she feel so distraught over just one selection?

 

* * *

  

“Do you know anything at all about flowers?”

“Is that a trick question?”

Sansa sighed. It _wasn’t_ a trick, but it also didn’t matter.  It wasn’t as if Joffrey knew anything about flowers, either, so sending someone else to help her pick out arrangements wasn’t necessarily _worse;_ it was just that she thought they could do it _together_.  And besides- making the Hound help her seemed oddly unfair to him. 

“If I’d known he wasn’t coming I could have asked Margaery or Arya…”

“Oh, yeah, Arya,” he rasped sarcastically, eyes wide. “Good choice.”

Well, he had a point there- Arya was about as interested in ‘girly’ things as little Rickon, so asking her to help would have been an exercise in tolerance as well as futility. And it turned out the Hound wasn’t even really that bad to work with.  He helped her with the logistics of ordering, had a keen understanding of dimensions and open space, and made a few valid points about how the weather might affect the foliage she had in mind.  Better yet was that he would always offer an opinion when she asked it of him, but _only_ when she asked it of him.  Whatever woman had trained him had certainly trained him well.

“We’re having a contest,” the salesgirl Jacqui said, handing over two sheets of paper. “It’s like a Newlywed game.  There are twenty five questions.  In the first column you answer each question for yourself, and in the second column you try to guess how your fiancée would answer.  The couple with the most right answers will get a couple’s massage at Cloud Nine.”

“Fun,” Sansa said unenthusiastically, fingering the paper.

“I know, right?” Jacqui chirped. “I have pens, if you need them.  And I’ll just stay right here with you to make sure you don’t share answers.  Though I doubt you two need to, it’s obvious how in tune you are.”

It wasn’t until he was walking her to her car afterwards that she asked him about it.

“Favorite kind of cake?”

“Lemon,” he grumbled, face twisted up in confusion though he said it with the conviction of a man who knew he was right. And he _was_ right, but...

“Not _my_ favorite kind of cake.  What’s _yours?”_

He looked askance at her. “What would you guess?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, sliding into the seat of her car. “You sure fought long and hard for that mocha filling.”

“Is that what you wrote down? Chocolate cake with mocha filling?”

“No, I uh… said you don’t really like cake.”

He raised his one good eyebrow at her. “That’s what I wrote, too.”

Then he shut her car door without so much as a word of farewell and strode away, never once looking back at her though she couldn’t take her eyes off of him.

 _Stop it, Sansa,_ she chastised herself, jamming her key into the ignition. _It’s just one correct answer._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like asparagus.


	3. Chapter 3

They had an appointment for their one-and-only counseling session that afternoon, a session that was _required_ by the church in order to marry there.  And Joffrey was trying- as usual- to get out of going.

“But it’s so pointless,” he groused. “We already know we want to get married, what are they hoping to do?  Talk us out of it?”

“Yes, I agree, totally pointless,” she nodded, trying to placate him. “But we still have to go.  It’s _required.”_

“It’s _stupid,”_ Joff insisted.  “Just… take the Hound.”

Sansa gaped at him. “That’s not how pre-marital counseling _works!”_

“We don’t _need_ pre-marital counseling, we just need to go through the motions so they let us marry in that stupid church you picked out.  You said so yourself.  So I don’t know why you have to bug _me_ about it.  Take the Hound.”

“Why do you always send _him?”_ she demanded, though she didn’t really mean it how it sounded.  It wasn’t the Hound that bothered her, not really; it was the fact that it was _not_ Joffrey. 

“He’s my best man,” he sneered without looking at her. “He’s supposed to do all the shitty things I don’t wanna do, right?”

It sure seemed like there were an awful lot of shitty things Joffrey didn’t want to do, and when it was time for them to leave for their session it was just her and the Hound again. She rode in his truck in dejected silence, arms crossed and staring out the window, speaking up only to give directions. 

Laura was young and cheerful and brand new to the profession. Which was good, Sansa thought- if anyone was going to be easily fooled by their little charade it would be a rookie.  The counselor worked from home in a studio more like a sunroom, surrounded on three sides by lush gardens and decorated with a neutral and calming palette.  It was a relaxing setting; or _would_ have been, if Sansa wasn’t in such a bad mood.

They sat in that horrifically cozy sunroom, facing each other and knees nearly touching, the Hound spilling out of his chair like the thing was made for dolls though she was trying not to notice. They’d gone through the preliminary introductions and given the necessary information, answered all the basic questions- when Laura asked them how many children they each wanted they’d both said three.

“Well, that’s a good start,” the woman clucked appreciatively. “You’d be surprised how many couples can’t even agree on _that.”_

They didn’t agree on much, though. It seemed every time Sansa voiced an opinion he was quick with a rebuttal, almost spitefully, about things like religion and finances.  And after a while she started returning the favor, arguing with him just for the sake of arguing over things like where they would raise their imaginary family.  It was childish, she knew, but he was this humongous reminder of who was missing and she couldn’t help but take it out on him.  Though what he gained from arguing with _her_ she could not say.

“I’m sensing a lot of tension here,” Laura said with a tight smile. “And I want you to know that’s completely normal.  Getting married is a highly stressful, life-changing event and people often fight more than usual, even people who are madly in love.  Like you two.” 

“We’re not fighting,” Sansa corrected her sourly, glancing over at the Hound to see how he was taking all this talk of love.

“Alright, that’s fine,” Laura insisted, holding her hands up in surrender. “But… I feel like you have something you need to say, Sansa.  I want you to look at Joffrey now, really _look_ at him, and tell him what you’re feeling using your ‘I’ statements.”   

Sansa eyed the counselor suspiciously, not wanting to look at the Hound and _really_ not wanting to cooperate with her directive.  It was just too weird to be talking to him as if he were Joffrey.  But at the same time, it really irritated her that it _couldn’t_ be Joffrey.  It was _supposed_ to be Joffrey.  But it never was.

“Well… _Joffrey…”_ she began, fingers worrying the seam of a pillow.  “Sometimes…  I feel… a little neglected.”

“Good Sansa, that’s good,” the therapist nodded. “And Joffrey?  What would you say to that?”

“I’d say that’s a pretty fucking fair complaint,” he rasped, flippant. “Frankly, I can’t believe you’ve tolerated my crap for _this_ long.”

Her head snapped up to meet his eyes and she immediately noticed his mouth twisted into a cruel grin like he was proud of himself, and it hurt- it _hurt_ \- that he would mock her now. _Why_ would he say that?  And why did he have to say it in that way?  This wasn’t a joke to her, she was actually saying something important.  But she was saying it to the wrong person- as always- and apparently the Hound couldn’t bother with even the smallest bit of empathy.

“Why are you always so _mean_ to me?”

He recoiled slightly as if she’d hit him, and the smug expression yielded at once to startled confusion.

“What are you talking about? I’m not mean to you.”

“Yes you are! I’ve never done anything to you, but you’re always trying to make me feel bad.”

“Oh, spare me the fucking drama, Mother Theresa. You can’t even look me in the eyes, why am I supposed to give a fuck about making you feel bad?”

“I can’t look you in the eyes because you look at me like _that,”_ she shouted, pointing at his face.  “Like I _annoy_ you!”

“You’re sure as hell annoying me right _now!”_

“I know! I can tell!  Is that what you _want?_ Does it give you _joy_ to hurt me?”

“I haven’t hurt you!”

“Don’t I look _hurt_ to you?” she gasped, hands fluttering around her face and body as if to prove her point.  “I just don’t _understand_.  What did I do to make you hate me?”

Laura had been right about the tension between them- Sansa was choking on it, unable to breathe, certain that as soon as she tried she would start crying. And she could _not_ start crying, not now, not over this, not with him just sitting there looking at her while she swallowed her sobs.  It seemed they sat like that for _centuries_ \- him staring, her breathless, sunlight flickering on the carpet between them.

“I don’t hate you, little bird,” he said softly. “I thought you knew that.”

_Little bird._

He hadn’t called her that in ages, she only just now realized, and even back when he did she always thought he was trying to insult her. But the way he said it now sounded… sweet.  Soothing.  Looking up into his hard silver eyes he was just as stoic and unreadable as ever, but she knew he wasn’t lying; what she _didn’t_ know was why it affected her so much.

“Really?”

“You think I’d be doing all this crap with you if I hated you?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, completely deflated; after saying something nice- well, nice for _him_ \- he just had to go and ruin it.

“It’s not crap,” she insisted, tripping on the foul word. “It’s important.  And you don’t _like_ doing it, so what’s your point?”

“Of course I don’t like doing it. Never in my life have I ever wanted to go pick out centerpieces but I still did it.”

“Yeah, you did it. But you didn’t _like_ it.”

“So? Am I not allowed to _dislike_ things?”

“Yes, of course you are.”

“You’d just prefer if I didn’t tell you?”

“No, I _want_ you to tell me.”

“Well, I don’t like that crap. I do it cause _you_ like it.”

Sansa fell silent, unsure of what to say, what to think, what to feel. He didn’t like those things, but he did them because _she_ liked them.  And that was… good, wasn’t it?  It was almost _better_ than doing them because he liked them. 

Heck, it was more than _Joffrey_ did.

“Well! I would say… we made some… good progress today,” Laura floundered cheerfully, obviously confused and way _way_ out of her element.  “And it sounds like you two have a _lot_ to talk about.  And, uh… I’ll let Father Hibbard know you did your counseling session.”

“Thank you,” Sansa sighed in relief. She’d forgotten, for a moment, why they were even doing this in the first place, but remembering soon made her choke up again.

“Relax, dear, you’ll be fine. It’s a stressful time for both of you, and it’s natural to have these strong feelings.  It’s obvious how much you love each other.”

“It is?”

“Of course,” the woman smiled. “Don’t get discouraged.  It’s just a lovers spat.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how I said don't take this too seriously?

It was kismet, Sansa decided, that by sending the Hound to the flower shop Joffrey had managed to win them a couple’s massage; if he had been there that day then no way would they have won. Even better, when she told him she made the appointment he hadn’t complained at all, just kissed her on the forehead and said he was looking forward to it.

But that was last week, and now… _now_ she was standing in the foyer of his apartment, watching him haul his golf clubs out of the closet while his gang of cronies stood by.  

“What are you doing?” she asked, though she already knew, _knew_ the answer.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he rolled his eyes at her; Meryn snickered.

“We have an _appointment_.  For a _massage_. _Remember?”_

“Ah, shit, I completely forgot. Can you reschedule?”

“I shouldn’t have to reschedule, Joffrey,” she snapped at him. “Why can’t _you_ reschedule?”

“Sorry, babe, I made plans.” He said it in that way that let her know he would _not_ be changing his mind, and he was _not_ really all that sorry. 

“I guess I just won’t go, then,” she huffed, hoping to guilt him into going.

“No reason for that,” Joff smirked at her. “You could take my dog.  He’s done a pretty good job with all this crap, right?” 

“I can’t take the Hound, Joffrey, it’s a _couple’s_ massage.  A massage for _couples._ You can’t just stick someone else in your place this time.”

“Don’t go, then,” he shrugged indifferently, as if that was what she was really asking for.

And that’s when she got it, _truly_ got it.  This was his way of absolving himself of any and all wrong-doing… and it always had been.  He’d wander off and do whatever he pleased just as long as he gave her some sort of alternative, even something terrible, and if she said ‘no thank you’ then that was _her_ decision.  Just like now.  She could tell by that smug little smile what he was thinking- _I gave you the solution, Sansa; if you reject it, that’s on you._

“Oh, I’m going,” she hissed defiantly. “Even if I have to go alone.”

“Whatever makes you happy, babe.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek then walked right out the front door with all his friends in tow.    

 _Almost_ all his friends.  The Hound was the last to leave but before he passed her she put her hand on his chest and pushed him backwards.

“Grab your keys,” she commanded. “You’re taking me to Cloud Nine.”

He opened his mouth to respond then snapped it shut and raised a brow.

“Just get your keys,” she sighed.

Sansa stormed down the hallway to the bathroom and quickly splashed water on her face, unsure of what _exactly_ had her so unsettled.  Joffrey’s dismissive attitude was maddening, yes, but… she hadn’t spoken to the Hound since their disastrous ‘counseling’ session, had blocked the whole thing out, pushed the confusing thoughts to the background till they were little more than white noise.  She had said too much that day, had _felt_ too much, and she wasn’t ready to talk to him, not when she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.  Yet here she was, about to spend yet another afternoon with him all because of Joffrey.

 _Joffrey,_ she stewed and narrowed her eyes at her own reflection.  Well, if he thought he was calling her bluff he was going to have to think again.  She was _going_ to that couple’s massage, and she was taking the Hound with her, and it was going to be… fine.  She’d Googled ‘couple's massage’ before she called to make an appointment and knew they were just going to be getting massages in the same room together and nothing more.  She could handle that. 

And hopefully Joffrey would be so worried about what kinds of shenanigans she was up to with his best man that his entire golf game would be ruined. And that would be just what he deserved.

 

* * *

 

The look on the Hound’s face when the masseuse introduced herself as Sunny Rainbow Christmas Day was worth the trip alone.

“But everyone just calls me Rain,” she continued in a soft dulcimer that was probably meant to soothe but only made Sansa giggle.

She led the two of them to a small room, already dimmed with light music playing and incense- frankincense?- curling up from a burner. And, curiously, there was one big futon mattress in the center of the room covered in a slate gray sheet, and a little cart that held the incense and a few bottles of oil.  And that was it- no massage tables, no chairs, no linens, not even another therapist.  The Hound told her on the drive over that he’d never had a massage before and therefor had no idea what to expect, but even _he_ knew something was wrong after taking a quick inventory of the room’s limited contents and turned to her with a baffled expression.

“I’m confused,” Sansa spoke up, trying to keep her tone light. “Are we not here for a couple’s massage?”

“Oh, no, you’re here for a couple’s massage _class._ You’ll find that learning to soothe your lover will have much better long-term therapeutic benefits than a single massage, and as you begin your lives together it’s truly one of the greatest gifts you can give each other.”

Everything Rain said sounded like she was singing a song, but this was not a tune Sansa wanted to hear. A _class?_ To massage _each other?_ And did she just call them _lovers?_  

Rain must have noticed their hesitation because she turned her head from one confused face to the other. She looked… stoned; she also looked the Hound directly in the eyes, stared up at him like he was the second coming. 

“I’m sorry,” she sang up to him. “It was wrong of me to presume just because you’re getting married.  Are you two intimate with each other on a regular basis?”

No! she screamed immediately. Only she didn’t actually say anything at all.  And she _should_ , she knew that, should say 'no thank you' and walk right out the door, but Rain wasn’t even talking to _her_.  She’d addressed her question to the _Hound_ , and as long as the problem rested on his incredibly muscular shoulders Sansa decided she would just wait and see what he did, what he said.  She didn’t think he would lie, not ever, but she also suspected he wouldn’t tell the truth.  He looked sideways at her, waiting for a directive she would never give, then finally bit the bullet and answered.

“Depends on what you mean by a regular basis,” he deadpanned; Sansa slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Ah yes, that’s a common concern among men,” Rain nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps this class will teach you some techniques that will act as a key in unlocking the door to more frequent and lasting intimacy.”

The Hound’s eyes went wide, clearly insulted. “I didn’t say anything about how long it lasts.”

“Of course,” Rain smiled up at him as if he’d just said something heartfelt and moving. “You’re not going to be very comfortable in those jeans, I fear, are you ok with taking them off?”

“Yeah, sure,” he rasped nonchalantly and reached for his belt, but when he looked up and saw Sansa’s horrified expression he quickly amended it to “maybe not today.”

“Well, then, why don’t you go ahead and undress down to whatever you’re comfortable with. And don’t worry about me.  Just pretend I’m not here and get as naked as you normally would.”

_That would be not-naked-at-all._

The Hound was just standing there, watching her out of the corner of his eye; he was waiting to follow her lead, she realized, and would do whatever she did. It was… kinda nice.  He’d do whatever she wanted, whatever that might be, even get undressed for her.  Well not _for_ her, per se, but… well yes, actually, _for_ her.  He had come here just because she asked him to, would undress just because she asked him to, he would even let her run her hands all over his body, just because she asked him to.  He was a generous man like that, and she was very, very… grateful.

Sansa slipped her shoes off and unzipped her hoodie. They were going to do this, because they’d _earned_ it and not for any other reason; there was _nothing wrong_ with taking advantage of the prize they won.  And how wrong could it be anyway?  It was just a massage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh heh.  
> Hahahahaha!  
> MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!
> 
> Making an unexpected trip out of town this weekend, and I really want to get the next chapter just right (for obvious reasons) so won't be updating until Tuesday at the earliest. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read so far, glad you're having as much fun as I am!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think most of you know by now that it's hard for me to take anything too seriously. Hence this chapter. 
> 
> Remember, it's a ROM-COM, it's not supposed to make a bunch of sense.
> 
> ALSO, thank you to SnowWhiteKnight and TheImmaculateBastard who hopefully don't regret giving me their email addresses. Couldn't have done it without you!

_So_ wrong, it turned out.  And really, if she had stopped to think for even one second she would have known better, but instead she was pulling off her t-shirt to expose her flimsy cami top and he was following her lead, removing his own shirt while she forced her eyes away.  And even though Rain had specifically said to undress down to what they were comfortable with, she still tried to get the Hound to take off his jeans.  Fortunately, he didn’t listen.   

“Alright, Joffrey- go ahead and sit right there in the middle. And pay attention to what I’m telling Sansa so I won’t have to repeat it when it’s her turn.”

Sansa froze at the mention of her fiancé. She’d given his name when she called to make the appointment, of course, but Rain had never said it until just this moment.  And now… how was she supposed to correct her now without admitting that no, actually, this wasn’t her fiancé, it was someone else, someone better. _No, not better!_ Except… he _was_ better, in some ways.  And while she wasn’t ready to think about what that might mean, she was definitely even less ready for the jig to be up.  So she said nothing, nothing at all, ignoring the tiny stab of guilt when he shot her a look though which man she felt guilty about she wasn’t entirely certain. 

He finally wandered to the middle of the room and followed Rain’s instructions, sitting where she told him to, legs folded uncomfortably and back to her as she got into position. It was good, she thought, that she didn’t have to worry about him looking at her.  Not now, not for this, not while staring at his very naked back and her kneeling behind him in a darkened room on an oversized mattress, ready to rub him down.

Oh dear god, what was she doing?

“The thing you need to understand when you massage your lover is it’s not so much about therapy, it’s more about making a connection. It’s all about awakening the senses and letting your bodies come alive.”

Rain was sitting cross-legged on the floor, well enough away that Sansa could almost pretend she wasn’t even there. Not that she wanted to pretend she wasn’t there.

“Go ahead and put your hands on him and just try to _connect,_ try to feel what he’s feeling.”

Sansa looked over at her instructor, not even attempting to hide how lost she was, but the woman gave her an encouraging smile and a nod. She could do this; Rain said so.  She rubbed her hands together to warm them up, took a deep breath, then _very very_ carefully rested her palms against his shoulders.

From then on Rain was little more than a litany of buzzwords, encouraging Sansa to use her _healing touch_ to tap into the Hound’s _earth energy_ and to attain _total kinetic awareness_ by, apparently, digging her fingers into his muscles.  It wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever done.  In fact, it wasn’t really that bad at all.  His skin was so smooth, and so hot, and there was just so _much_ of it.  It seemed to take decades to slide her hands from one side of his back to the other as Rain told her to press her palms into his shoulder blades, to knead each of his absurdly muscular biceps, to _synergize_ with his _body dynamic_ by stroking the wide bones of his rib cage.

But it was not having the desired effect; or at least, not the effect that Rain anticipated. He seemed to get even stiffer before her eyes, body almost uncomfortably rigid under her hands. _You and me both, babe._ No, not babe!  Jesus, what was she thinking?

He dropped his chin to his chest at Rain’s insistence, hair falling forward and exposing his neck. God, he was big.  Sansa put two thumbs on either side of his spine up near his head, then slid down to where it disappeared into the waistband of his jeans- _plaid boxers, nice_ \- then back up again, splaying her hands across his neck and running her fingers through his hair.  It was nice hair, and it was nice having her hands in it, nice to scrape her nails lightly against his scalp when she took two fistfuls making him jump in surprise. _Oops._

“Now, if he seems particularly tense- like he does right now- you’ll want to talk to him, try to soothe him with your words. Say ‘I care for you, Joffrey.  I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Joffrey.  I…’”

“I don’t really call him that.”

“You don’t call him by his _name?”_ Rain peered at her, genuinely confused.  “What do you call him?”

That was a very good question, actually, and one she didn’t really have time to think through.

“I call him… Sandor. It’s… Dutch… for honey bear.”  

“Oh, a nickname, how adorable,” Rain chirped, her vaguely stoned expression slipping back into place. “Alright, so… say ‘I care about you, Sandor.’”

Sansa balked again, but Rain gave her an encouraging nod.

“I care about you Sandor,” she echoed dully, hands awkwardly caressing his shoulders, down his back and up again.

“I want to make you happy, Sandor.”

“I want to make you happy, Sandor.”

“I want to feel your love inside me, Sandor.”

“I… can’t say that.”

“Hmmm… maybe with practice,” Rain retorted unperturbed. “You can go ahead and lie down now, Sandor.  Is it alright if I call you Sandor?  Or do you prefer I call you Joffrey?”

Sansa burst out laughing; it was too absurd- all of it was _so absurd_ \- but he was lying down as instructed and her giggles evaporated as she quickly scooted out of his way.  And then she was kneeling beside him, staring down at this enormous man whose feet were dangling off the end of the mattress since he was too blasted big for any standard-sized thing on the planet.  He was waiting for her.  All she had to do was start.

“Remember, Sansa… once you’ve made contact you don’t want to break it.”

She nodded. And swallowed.  Then took a deep breath and cleared her throat.  And when she was as ready as she could possibly be under the circumstances, she reached down and brushed her fingertips lightly across his stomach, but his skin crawled under her hands and he flinched from her touch.

“That tickles.”

Huh. Never would she have thought the man was ticklish, and learning it now made her forget what it was she was supposed to be doing.  It was such an unexpected little discovery that she felt some ridiculous need to repeat it, to prove it was a fact and not a fluke.  So she ghosted her fingers across his stomach again, and again his muscles recoiled and he hissed in protest.

“Dammit, woman!”

Sansa had to bite back a triumphant laugh, but when she saw Rain’s disapproving look she sobered quickly. This time when she put her hands on him she did so firmly. 

_Hirsute._

His stomach was harder than she would have thought, and very flat and kind of hairy, and it didn’t really move at all when she rubbed easy circles into him. He seemed calmer now, so completely relaxed she could almost believe he was sleeping.  He _looked_ like he was sleeping, and it was an encouraging thought that he could be so relaxed even in this position, even as her hands moved in broader strokes, wider circles.

She was glad he closed his eyes, because somewhere in her periphery she thought she saw… something. And even though her brain told her there was _no way_ that could possibly be what she thought it was, some other part of her was hopelessly curious about discovering the truth of it.  With his eyes closed and no way of finding out where she was looking, she went ahead a snuck a peak downwards.  And yep, her brain had been wrong. _Enormously_ wrong.  And apparently, he was really not all that relaxed, either.  

Dear lord, she shouldn’t have looked. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it, how much she could see even through heavy denim.  Her eyes and hands were wandering absently over his torso, fingers brushing chest hair, but her thoughts were… elsewhere.  She shouldn’t have looked.   Oh, but how could she _not_ look?  He was practically waving a flag down there.

“Sansa.”

“Hmmm?”

“You should move on to other parts of his body. Like his shoulders or arms, perhaps?”

Rain’s tone was pleasant but the reproach was unmistakable; Sansa took a breath… and moved on.

Her hands drifted to his shoulders, gliding up and over them then sliding down his right arm where she gripped his bicep, eyes following along, taking all of him in. One hand stayed in place as the other moved upwards, back to his shoulder and neck, and when she stole a glance at his face she was surprised to see how calm he looked, almost peaceful.  She’d never seen him like that before, and knowing she was the one to soothe him was… oddly empowering. 

_Robust._

She had to go up on her knees to reach across to his other arm, the angle making the bulk of her weight rest wherever her hands were. Which happened to be on his opposite bicep, and strangely enough he didn’t seem to mind, didn’t groan or move or complain.  Just let her do as she pleased, whatever Rain told her to do, let her take his hand in hers to massage the palm and fingers, the tendons in his wrist, his elbow, then travelling back up and over to the arm closest to her, repeating the process there.

Rain said something about tension in the neck; or maybe tendons in the neck. It mattered little.  Sansa moved her hands in unison to either side of his neck, cradled his head, kneaded his muscles and smoothed his skin, just as instructed, even though she was truthfully rather distracted.  She’d never really _looked_ at him before, not really, not like this.  For the longest time she’d been _afraid_ to look at him, afraid of his acid tone and cruel insults and the way he _saw_ her.  Like he could see _in_ her.  And maybe he could. 

The instructions had faded away but Sansa kept going, ran her palms up under his chin to feel the stubble and took his face in her hands even though no one told her to. That didn’t stop Rain from offering advice, though.  Sansa followed her directions, rolled her thumb in circles around his forehead and across his brow, under his eye, behind his ear, all the while he kept his eyes squeezed shut, his serene expression replaced by one of sullen detachment.

She tried to tilt his head the other way but he resisted, mouth twisting in irritation. So she tried again, more insistent, and this time he yielded, allowed her to roll his head over so he was facing her. It was hard for him, she could tell, to have her examining him this way; his jaw was clenched and cheek was twitching, and she had an absurd longing to kiss him, to soothe him and tell him that it was ok, she didn’t mind; it was just another part of him, and she’d gotten used to him completely.  But she _couldn’t_ kiss him, and she couldn’t say anything, because there were no words for him that were appropriate to even think.  So she told him in other ways- by running a thumb over his missing brow, stroking knuckles down his leathery cheek to just below his ruined ear.  And even though she lingered much longer than was strictly necessary, he never relaxed under her touch and she wondered, strangely, if he ever would.

_Daunting._

Rain did a shockingly good job of blending into the background; Sansa kept forgetting she was even there, only remembering whenever the woman spoke up about one technique or another, muscle groups and tension and… other things, though she really wasn’t listening anymore.

 _How did he get this?_ she wondered, tracing the full length of a scar from his collar bone to his sternum, not stopping, curious fingers dancing lightly but thoroughly over him, leaving nothing untouched, unexamined.  When she drew a circle around his bellybutton he sucked his stomach in as if to avoid her touch; he was ticklish, she remembered, the thought warming her and making her smile.

She was still smiling while her eyes and hands strayed from their original purpose, trailing back up his body, sweeping over his ribs and through the dense dark hair on his chest, fingers moving delicately at his neck. She’d just reached his jaw and cupped his face when her gaze landed on a pair of darkened silver eyes, watching her with that same bored expression though she’d seen the evidence that he was most certainly not bored. 

How long had his eyes been open? And what did that oddly blank expression mean?  Why had she not moved an inch, why did she still have his face in her hands and her gaze on him?  And what was that _feeling_ creeping across her eyes, down over her chest and into her belly?

Before she could even think about it, Rain spoke up with four of the most horrifying words, just what she didn't want to hear.

“Alright Sansa… your turn.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been BUSY! Sold one house, bought another, leaving town to go do a 10k with my sis. Notice I said 'do' a 10k and not 'run' a 10k. I'm only in it for the bling.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa had her doubts, of course- nearly _all_ of them involved Rain, the fruitcake therapist who probably got kicked out of massage school, was probably making things up as she went along.

“It’ll be easier for him if you take your camisole off,” the woman was saying with that same kind smile she used when they first arrived.

“I’m good, thanks,” was all Sansa could manage.

The Hound- _Sandor_ \- didn’t kneel like she had; Rain made him sit flat on his bottom behind Sansa, a denim-clad leg sprawled out on either side of her while she hugged her own legs tight against her chest, not wanting to touch him.  Considering the circumstances, that was a completely ridiculous objective- she was _between_ his legs for heaven’s sake- but somehow that seemed… perfectly reasonable.

“I hope you were paying attention,” Rain chirped. “Because I’m going to talk as little as possible.  Just try to do exactly what she did and I’ll speak up only if I have to.”

 _Exactly_ what she did?  Oh god.  She remembered her hands on his chest, fingers on his skin, eyes on his… elsewhere. _Exactly?_ For the first time since they’d left Joff’s apartment she was actually a little scared; she took a deep breath and pulled her legs up even closer.

And still the Hound hadn’t made a move to touch her. _So timid._ Honestly, she thought he would be braver than that.  Sansa reached up and pulled her hair over her shoulder, exposing her back and glancing towards him in an unspoken invitation that he eventually accepted.

His pattern was… familiar. She would have guessed he wasn’t paying _any_ attention to her sad attempt at massage, but he was doing it exactly how she had, hands flat on her bare shoulders, squeezing her upper arms, ghosting over her ribs with a gentleness she hadn’t anticipated.  She tried to keep her back perfectly rounded but when he slid two thumbs up her spine she arched involuntarily, body uncoiling under his touch so much that her head fell backwards into his waiting hands.  And then it was fingers stroking her hair, massaging her scalp and it was… not awful.  It was nice, actually; almost loving.

_It wouldn’t be this nice if it was Joffrey._

It _wouldn’t_ , that was true.  It wouldn’t be nice, it wouldn’t be loving, it wouldn’t be relaxing.  It wouldn’t be rough fingers against delicate skin, or heavy hands along her sides, or gentle circles at her shoulder blades.  Only one person could knead the muscles at the flare of her hips, could soothe her and make it feel good, make it feel _right,_ and that person was… _not_ her fiancé.  The realization made her sit up quickly, eyes wide in surprise.

“Go ahead and lie down, Sansa.”

Oh. For a moment she’d forgotten Rain was even there.  Worse was that smug look on the woman’s face, as if she knew exactly what was going on, even though she was a space-cadet with questionable credentials.  The Hound- _Sandor_ \- had already moved almost reluctantly out of Sansa’s way and was kneeling to her right, waiting for her.  As usual.  And even though she suspected he was waiting for more than she was willing to give she decided not to think on it, instead dropping to her elbows before finally easing onto her back, stretched out and supine before him.

He looked uncomfortable on his knees, absurdly so, and not in an _isn’t-this-awkward_ kind of way but more of a _my-body-doesn’t-bend-like-that_ kind of way; he kept shifting and twisting, repositioning his legs, leaning on one arm then the other until Rain finally spoke up.

“Just sit and get comfortable, Sandor, in whatever way you can.”

He scowled at the suggestion, helpful as it was, but didn’t follow the directive, and it occurred to Sansa that he couldn’t get comfortable until he knew she was ok with it, wouldn’t relax until _she_ did.  Her deer-in-the-headlights expression was not helping things, so she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, tried to soothe them both with her passivity.

She seemed somehow even more aware of him this way, could _feel_ him differently, feel his tension and his heat and maybe a bit of something else, some unnamable thing she was feeling, too.  The mattress moved beneath her and he was near, body leaning across her and hips right next to hers, and a hand, firm and oddly familiar, rested lightly across her stomach and she sucked in sharply at the contact. 

“Relax, Sansa. Remember, you want to try and get closer to him; you have to let him in.”

Rain was surely out of her mind if she thought relaxing was remotely possible with this bare-chested giant looming over her, trying to get ‘closer.’ But Sansa took another deep breath and forced the tension from her body- who knew what kinds of crazy pseudo-sexual things Rain would make him say if she couldn’t relax?- and after a moment of silence, he began.

It started simply enough, with small circles on her stomach just as she had done to him. Except her stomach was smaller than his, and his hand was bigger than hers, so his movements seemed to be going into far more inappropriate areas than hers had, sweeping up high to just under her breasts, then down to well below the waistband of her yoga pants, his hand a hot scratch on her skin even through fabric.  And with every stroke her heart beat faster, her breath came harder, and a single thought was whispering through her mind.

_More._

He hesitated a moment before moving on, slowly sliding up between her breasts, palm heavy across her racing heart and fingers wide at her neck for just a second, only a second, before continuing over her left shoulder and down the full length of her arm, tracing the pulse that was fluttering madly in her wrist and taking her hand into both of his as she had done to him.

It wasn't so much a massage as it was an inspection, the way he lifted every one of her fingers, caressed her palm, circled her wrist with one massive hand and slid the other up to her elbow. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, her bare shoulders, bare arms, bare fingers.  She wondered if he even noticed how truly bare she was, or if he liked it.  She wondered if he was still hard… then chastised herself for even thinking such a thing. 

His hands never left her body, never ‘broke the connection,’ as he made his way back up her left arm and down the other, repeating the whole process on the arm closest to him. It was more intimate this way, and even more so when he rested her hand against his chest so he could focus on her arm.  Rain had told him to do that, she knew, but it still felt… _right_ … to have her hand on him this way, to feel his heartbeat and his chest rising with every deep breath.  It was oddly familiar, comfortable in a way it shouldn’t be, him stroking her arm with gentle fingers, soft, sensual… but not relaxing.  What she was feeling was _not_ relaxation.

_More._

He held one hand over hers where it rested on his chest, his other hand sliding firmly down her arm, over her décolleté and through the valley of her breasts, releasing her and shifting his full attention to her body, both hands now a grip at her sides and moving down past her waist, over the flare of her hips though she doubted he was told to do that. Didn’t matter. _Nothing_ mattered with his thumbs rubbing lightly over her hip bones, fingers a soft slip against her curves. 

Rain was giving instructions but Sansa had no idea what she was saying. All she could think about was his _hands_ , large and rough, drifting up the sides of her ribcage and pushing her camisole up to reveal her stomach.  Was that an accident?  She didn’t care.  He continued up her sides, over her ribs to her shoulders, fingers brushing slightly against the sides of her breasts and oh, it was _unfair_ that her arousal was on display for him.  She could only imagine the indecent way her chest was heaving, could _feel_ his eyes on her, heavy as his hands, caressing her wherever his fingers wouldn’t go, over swollen breasts and nipples so rigid they almost hurt.

_More._

The mattress dipped slightly where his hand landed solidly beside her head and he shifted once more, moving till he was over her. Her eyes fluttered open because she had to _see_ , had to _know_ what he was thinking, but aside from those impossibly dark eyes he just looked _bored_ , even with one hand still on her neck and moving upwards to cup her cheek far too briefly.  A rough knuckle traced the line of her jaw, lifting her chin gently as a man might do when requesting a kiss, then slipping back down her neck, finger toying at the dip between her collar bones, playing with the supple swell of flesh just below.

When he at last returned to her face their eyes met- his, hard and unreadable, hers no doubt swimming with her thoughts. Could he _see?_ If he could he didn’t show it, only continued exploring the contours of her face, eyes still locked, her body a boneless little puddle of flesh under his hard hands, his _soft_ hands, unable to stop him even if she wanted to.  And she _didn’t_ want to, didn’t even want to think about it, only wanted to react to him and the things he was doing, the fingers on her brow and forehead, the growing heat between them.  She opened her mouth when a thumb brushed her lip, heart thumping almost painfully, all the while pretending it was more, pretending it was his lips instead of his fingers, a kiss instead of a gaze, imagined his hair and his breath and his tongue and his…

“Sansa.”

Her breath hitched at the sound of his voice, her name soft on his lips, but he _still_ wore that carefully neutral expression, jaw set and hair hanging down around him exactly how she imagined it would if he… if they…  she swallowed hard.  He was hiding behind that look; he was _always_ hiding behind that look.  And whatever it was he was hiding, she wished he wouldn’t hide it anymore.

“Sandor.”

He blinked, once, and shook his head.

“Rain’s talking to you.”

The words were an unwelcome surprise in the Jell-O of her brain, and it took several seconds and way too much effort for her to understand his meaning. Eventually, though, her head sloshed to the side and she met the eyes of a smiling Rain, the hippie massage therapist who very obviously knew just what the hell she was doing. 

“We’re out of time, I fear,” she hummed. “Go ahead and get dressed and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Sansa nodded weakly in response and sat up just as the woman exited the room, unable to move any more than that, unable to speak. The Hound, however, wasted no time before pulling his shoes on, shrugging back into his shirt and stalking towards the door.

“I’ll be outside.”

And he left without looking at her, left her still trembling on that mattress, left in a manner that suggested he was very, very angry and she didn’t even have to wonder why.

_It was just a massage._

But it wasn’t. And really, she knew better than that, knew before they even started, but she did it anyway because she _wanted_ to.  She wanted to touch a toe over the line, wanted to pretend they were something they weren’t, wanted to _stop_ pretending and make it real if only in this room, if only for an hour.  How, _how_ could she feel like that?  She was supposed to be getting married to Joffrey; Sandor was just the best man.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to everyone for reading. Thanks to AdultOrphan for being born, and for being my first friend on AO3 and helping me with so many fics. Thanks to SnowWhiteKnight who has been listening to me babble about this fic since the beginning of January, and The_Immaculate_Bastard for very patiently helping me work through some Sansa characterizations. Thanks to LittleBirdAddicted for putting the massage idea in my head in the first place (bad influence!) and everyone who has tossed me a hit, comment, or kudo. You're the best, much love to each and every one of you!
> 
> Sassy's standard disclaimer: it's a rom-com, don't take it seriously.

The Hound was angry, furious even, and tense beyond anything she’d ever seen even though he _just_ _had_ a massage.  She couldn’t really blame him, though- she’d just had a massage, too, and was just as wound up as he was.  The only question was if they were wound up about the same thing.

“Why?” he growled, so softly she almost didn’t hear.

“Why what?”

“Why would you…”

Definitely the same thing. And maybe that was a fair question- _more_ than fair, probably- but she would have to think about an answer later; right now she really _really_ just wanted him to drop it. 

“Why am I even _here?”_

“Joff had plans, you know that. I needed someone to fill in.”

“You don’t act like I’m a fill-in.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t.”

He wasn’t wrong- she did know what he was talking about, knew that somewhere between the man on the golf course and the man at her side lay the truth of what she wanted.  Or rather, the truth of what she _no longer_ wanted. _Later, I’ll think about it later._

“What are you _doing?”_

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… fuck… why are you _doing_ these things?  With _me?”_

“You’re doing them, too.”

“I’m not engaged to someone else!”

“He’s busy,” she retorted weakly, the defense so well-used she blurted it without hesitation even though that wasn’t really the reason. “He wouldn’t be much fun at these things, anyway, it’s better with you.”

“What does that _mean?”_

“It means… what do you _want_ it to mean?”

“What do I want it to mean?” he echoed with a hiss of bitter laughter. “Since when does it matter what _I_ want?”

“I let you pick the groom’s cake,” she offered up. “And the china.  And… the chicken marsala.”

The look he gave her then was one of over-exaggerated incredulity, turned in the seat to fully face her with his mouth hanging open, and she had to tamp down the urge to remind him to watch the road.

“You think I got what I wanted because you let me pick out things for your _wedding?”_   He slammed his fist hard against the steering wheel making the horn _bleat_ in surprise, and Sansa flinched and prayed the airbags didn’t deploy and make them crash and die in a ditch somewhere like her mother always said.

“That’s… not it.” At least… she didn’t _think_ that was it.  It was for her wedding, yes, but it had been important to her, to listen to him and please him, and she couldn’t explain it properly because how could she ever say those things out loud? 

“Are you gonna tell him?”

“Tell him what?”

“Tell him about our little _class?”_

“There’s nothing to tell, Sandor, it was just a massage.”

“Oh, yeah, of course it was,” he huffed sarcastically, anger bubbling up, voice curdling and rising at every word. “It was _just_ a massage.  Just been dating your best man, Joffrey.  I fucked him just a little.  You’d probably let me, too, let me fuck you and still go off and _marry_ him!  Fuck!” 

He punched the steering wheel again, twice, and this time Sansa hoped the airbags _did_ deploy, hoped they flew out and bonked him right on his big dumb head.  Who did he think he was- who did he think _she_ was- that he could say those things, accuse her of… things, throw this epic tantrum as if she had done something wrong?  She hadn’t done anything wrong! 

“I want to go home.”

“Sure you don’t want to go see your _fiancé?”_

“Stop it. I want to go home.”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and rested her head on the window.

“Your car.”

“I’ll get it later.”

They drove the rest of the way in blessed silence, a fact that only served to remind her how Joffrey didn’t even know where she lived. How was it possible that her fiancé had never seen her place, but the Hound didn’t even have to ask for directions?  She hated him a little for that.  She hated them _both_ a little for that- Joffrey, for knowing so little about her, and the Hound for knowing so much.   

They’d barely come to a stop in her driveway when she clambered out of his truck, grabbing her purse and slamming the door harder than necessary, but before she could get all the way up her sidewalk he cut the engine and opened his door.

“Sansa.”

Gods, what now? Was he going to yell at her right here on the front lawn of her little bungalow, out in the open where the neighbors could see?  She walked faster, fumbling for her keys as she went. 

“Sansa, just _wait!”_

Stupid lock, stupid key, stupid trembling hands- it took way too long to get inside and he had caught up to her by then, storming in behind her before she could close the door, easing into her tiny foyer like he belonged there.

“Unless you came in to apologize, you can just leave,” she ordered firmly, but her strength faltered when he stepped into her, and she had to remind herself to _not_ retreat, to _not_ be distracted by how dangerously, deliciously close he was.  He was _shaking_ \- he wanted to touch her, she could tell, but he wouldn’t lay a hand on her as long as she had a fiancé, no matter how badly he wanted to, how badly she _wanted_ him to.  Just an hour ago they’d had their hands all over each other; now it was only tension and body heat and it wasn’t enough for him.  Not for either of them, really.

“I’m sorry.”

And _that_ sucked the air right out of her.  He _should_ be sorry, she knew that, but she never expected to hear him say it, never expected he’d whisper his apology into her ear like that, as if it meant something else, something more. 

“I’m sorry, I am… just…” He lifted a hand as if to touch her arm, her face, then dropped it in defeat. “Don’t marry him.”

It was a confession of sorts. Still, she wanted to ask him why not, wanted him to give her a reason, but she was done playing dumb- she knew the reason, didn’t she?  She could _feel_ the reason, couldn’t she?  He’d said it all in those three little words, everything she needed to hear, and even if she was wrong about that it wouldn’t matter- she’d already made the decision and had only been waiting until later to pull the trigger.  But _‘later’_ seemed suddenly too far away. 

“Okay.”

She had no idea what his reaction was to her answer- her only thought was on the task at hand, the problem that needed solving, the solution she’d already come up with even if it wasn’t supposed to be happening quite like this. Within seconds she’d retrieved her phone from her purse, her hand shaking so badly it took several tries to find his number.  But then it was ringing and she lifted it to her ear, taking one long deep breath and hoping that for once he would actually answer her call.  And wonder of wonders… he did.

“Hallo.”

“Joffrey?”

“Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“I don’t want to get married,” she gasped all at once, like a balloon deflating.

 _“What?”_ He said it as if he couldn’t hear her- and maybe he _couldn’t_ , what with the sounds of music playing and girls laughing and drinkware clinking.

“I don’t want to get married.”

The silence that followed let her know that this time he had definitely heard her.

“Sansa. Look, I’m, uh… on the 12th fairway, as soon as I’m done here I’ll go straight home and we’ll talk, alright?”

“No, that’s okay,” she answered dully, ignoring his patronizing tone and obvious lie. “I just wanted to tell you I don’t want to get married.”  It was funny, really, how impossible it had been to even _think_ at first, but now the words just rolled off her tongue like they were nothing.  She may as well have been reading the weather report.

“Ooookay,” he answered slowly, like he was talking to a crazy person. “I want my ring back.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.  I left it in the medicine cabinet of the guest bath, I thought it would be safe there.”  She nodded at her phone for emphasis, forgetting that he couldn’t see her.

“Riiiigggghhhht,” he drawled, still very obviously confused. “Well, nice knowing you, I guess.  Talk to you never.”

“Yeah, you too,” she responded.

But he was already gone. She stared down at the phone in her hand, saw her own stunned expression reflecting back at her... had she really just called off her wedding over the phone?  Like it was nothing?  Yes, yes she had, because it _was_ nothing.  The whole relationship had been nothing from the start, and the fact that it ended in an almost _stupidly_ anti-climactic way somehow seemed fitting.  And she should feel bad, probably, but she didn’t, was instead so devoid of passion or emotion that even _that_ seemed right, because she’d never felt passion with Joffrey, either.  For a love that was supposed to last forever she had felt very little, but _now_ … now she felt like giggling, like spinning in circles and squealing like a little girl.  

“I don’t think he believed me,” she muttered and smiled to herself, but when she looked up at Sandor he was just standing there, gaping at nothing in particular and looking properly horrified.

Well, she wanted him to stop hiding and he wasn’t hiding anymore- he seemed genuinely confused, maybe even a little scared. Why would he look so distraught when she did what he wanted?  Surely he didn’t think she broke up with Joffrey just because he told her to; surely he knew there was more to the story.  Right?

“Your favorite restaurant is that Brazilian steakhouse on Kings Road,” she began. “Autumn is your favorite season, you prefer coffee over tea, and when you were little you wanted to be an astronaut when you grew up.”

The newlywed contest they entered had been her first wakeup call about her engagement, because it had never even _occurred_ to her to answer the questions for Joffrey; she’d ticked through every question with the _Hound_ in mind, surprised by how well she knew him _._ She didn’t know what it meant at the time, but she knew now.  He must have known it too, because after several heartbeats he noticeably relaxed and lifted his gaze to hers, eyes so wide it was like looking at a different man. 

“If you could live anywhere in the world, you’d choose Paris.”

“I would,” she nodded. “You’d choose Scotland.”

“I would. How do you _know_ that?”

“I’m not sure,” she laughed, because she _wasn’t_ sure, it just seemed like something she’d always known about him. 

She didn’t have to say any more, thank the gods- an instant later she was in his arms, one hand at the back of her head to pull her in for a kiss and oh, it was the _sweetest_ kiss, hard but oddly gentle and so warm, and she kissed him back with everything she had, desperate to show him what she was thinking, to act instead of hesitate.  There was _no reason_ to hesitate anymore. 

A hand had slipped down over her bottom and pulled her firmly against his hips while the other tugged at her hair, lips grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, her gasps embarrassingly loud though he didn’t seem to mind. And she kept grasping at him, clawing at his back to draw him closer, needing more of him, more of his heat and his breath and his hardness.  He was trying to go slow but she didn’t _want_ slow, she wanted desire, passion, _life._  She’d been craving the feel of him in just this way since long before their little massage class, and now that they had started down the path she found she’d rather sprint than stroll. 

Fortunately, he was easy to convince, and as soon as she lifted the hem of his shirt he finished the job for her, peeling away layers of clothing for the second time that day but in a different way, a better way, before tackling her hoodie. Things spun very quickly out of control from there and she loved it, loved the dizzying intensity of him, the headiness his kisses awoke in her, the power in his body and the way it moved against her.  By the time they were falling onto her bed they were fully undressed, though how that was possible when she never stopped kissing him and never stopped touching him she didn’t know, didn’t care.

And he was everywhere, touching every inch of her, mouth at her breast and tongue teasing her nipple, fingers slipping over her shoulders and stomach and between her legs, and still she needed more. Two fists in his hair brought him back up to her, pulling him in for a kiss and hopefully more than that, but he wrenched from her grasp to lean back and look at her.

His eyes were dark and left no doubt that he wanted what she wanted, which was good, because she thought she would _die_ if he didn’t hurry up.  But instead he was just gazing down at her, drinking in the sight of her, hands caressing every curve, every…

“You’re killing me, dude.”

“Did you just call me ‘dude’?”

_“Shut up!”_

Under any other circumstances his smug little smirk would have driven her to madness, but all was forgiven when he finally nestled between her legs, heat blooming and spreading from where he pushed inside and this, _this_ is what had been missing, _this_ is what she’d been looking for- the riot gathering in her stomach, the moans he was gasping in her ear, the steady thumping of her headboard against the wall, _this this this._

Oh god, she was so close already, so unbelievably blissfully close. He must have been, too, judging by his overly-cautious movements. 

“I can’t. Sansa… I can’t…”

“It’s ok,” she gasped, because it _was_ ok; she knew what he was saying and it was definitely ok.  “I want everything.  Give me everything.” 

He did. And she was more than ready for the storm he unleashed on her, the relentless pounding that all-too-soon had her blind with ecstasy, a pleasure that thundered through her body and stole her breath before she could make a sound.  He was not long after her, the frantic snapping of his hips yielding to slower thrusts and a deep groan through clenched teeth, the most heavenly song she had ever heard.

And it made sense, really, how quickly they both came, even if it was a little ridiculous; but she had wanted him for so long, longer than she could really admit, and when it was over and they were simmering down into a happy afterglow Sansa burst out laughing.

“Are you laughing at me?” he growled with not one ounce of animosity.

“Not _at_ you. _With_ you.”

“I’m not laughing.” But then he _was_ laughing and she _was_ laughing with him, running her fingers over his shoulders and her nose against jaw. 

“You know those cartoon characters that get hit so hard they see stars and birds and stuff?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m seeing stars and birds.”

“Pretty intense, huh?”

“I guess two months of foreplay will do that for ya.”

He seemed amused by the very notion. “Is that what it was?  Foreplay?”

“Yeah. That’s what it was.”

“Then I should send Rain a thank you note,” he murmured and kissed her forehead.

 _“I_ should send Rain a gift basket.”

He’d withdrawn by then and was trailing little kisses over her neck and collarbones, so many little kisses she thought maybe he’d never stop, maybe he _couldn’t_ stop.  And maybe she’d be ok with that.  But after leaving one long lingering kiss over her heart he rolled away, pulling her with him so she could snuggle against him, and she thought maybe she’d be ok with that, too.

Late-afternoon sunlight was streaming through her window, warming their skin where they lay on top of her bedspread, arms and legs still tangled loosely together, one of his hands playing with her hair. It was _odd_ how content she was.  Only fifteen minutes ago she’d been engaged to someone else; now her brain was fried and her legs were jelly and she was elated, joyful in a way she couldn’t remember ever feeling before.  She should be melancholy at the very least- guilty, regretful, ashamed- but the only thing she really felt was… happy.  She was happy.

“This is happiness,” she whispered into his chest.

“Hmmm?” he stirred at her comment. “You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Hungry?” he tried again, clearly suspicious of her silence.

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“I’m good,” she laughed. “Really.”

“Alright, but… you’ll let me know if you need anything, right?”

“Don’t have to,” she hummed, arm looping up around his shoulder, her lips against his. “I got just the thing I need right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fluffy little rom-com. Don't take it too seriously.


End file.
